


Come Back to Me

by DovaBunny



Series: Geraskier Fics [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Higher Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Kinda suicide ideation? But not really?, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Porn with Feelings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Secret Identity, The Witcher Lore, Vampire!Jaskier, and some made-up lore, its a vampire fic what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovaBunny/pseuds/DovaBunny
Summary: In his 300 years Jaskier has perfected being able to hide his true nature. Not even his closest friends knew that there was more to the clumsy charming bard than meets the eye.He had managed to make a lifestyle and rhythm for himself, and worked very hard to keep it that way. He was happy. He was safe. He was normal.As normal as a Higher Vampire can be.Till he met Geralt
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772185
Comments: 41
Kudos: 551





	1. Don't you know I'm yours?

In his 300 years Jaskier has perfected being able to hide his true nature. Not even his closest friends knew that there was more to the clumsy charming bard than meets the eye.

He had managed to make a lifestyle and rhythm for himself, and worked very hard to keep it that way. He was happy. He was safe. He was normal.

As normal as a Higher Vampire can be.

Till he met Geralt

____

Being an extremely rare and dangerous race, very little is known of higher vampires. They keep to themselves and are highly secretive. They can pass as human and hide their powerful abilities rather easily, and often do, living for decades, even centuries, amongst them without suspicion. 

They were exceedingly intelligent, inhumanely fast, could behead a man with a single swipe, turn to mist in the blink of an eye, and could regenerate from a single lump of bloody flesh back into their normal state within minutes. They were, essentially invincible. But they had one weakness. They had to feed.

This was their biggest secret, closely guarded - if a higher vampire was starved for too long from human blood they would grow weaker and weaker until they start to transform. They become feral and lose all reasoning, not being able to retract to their calm state, permanently becoming bloodthirsty killing machines, much like their lesser vampire cousins, that could usually only be killed by one of their own kind. Human blood was, therefore, more than just a delicacy, it kept them healthy, powerful, and most importantly, sane. 

There was another well-kept secret to higher vampires, although it had been speculated by experts throughout the years. Being as complex and powerful as they are, each higher vampire had a special ability, often completely unique. 

So did Jaskier. 

Jaskier was able to hypnotise and alter memories. Although he was careful not to use his talent when performing, it was a necessary part of his life. You see, Jaskier was a bit of a slut. Or that is how people thought of him with how often he took someone to bed. He hardly even had to try and would never abuse his powers in flirting, his paramours usually approaching him with their proposition. 

There was some truth in the rumours, he did get proposition very often, and he accepted more often than not. However, only a small handful of those encounters ended in sex. Jaskier knew he had to feed, it was an unfortunately unavoidable part of his nature, no matter how much he hated it. So he developed an art out of it - returning the alluring looks, a saucy wink, and following an eager human to bed. He would serenade them then, softly, leading them into a calm hypnotic state. A gentle bite to their neck, careful not to injure more than absolutely necessary, he would take a few mouthfuls to keep him for the next few weeks. They always tasted so sweet, nothing like the sharp bitterness of a frightened human’s blood like what his parents had in their house. Calm and happy and aroused human blood was unparalleled to any other and also kept him satiated for longer. 

Once done and his brief intoxication passed, he would lull them to sleep with another song, replacing the blank memory with something happy and sweet, leaving them to blissful dreams. He carried a small pot of healing balm he would apply to the two tiny punctures, ensuring it would be gone by the morning. They would wake up happy from pleasant dreams and be none the wiser. 

Jaskier had no desire to ever outright harm, drain, or kill. It was what had alienated him from his family in the first place. Not even in self-defence would he resort to his vampiric abilities, knowing that no matter how he was harmed he would heal. At most he had used his inhuman strength to wrestle off a violent, senseless human intent on harming him or another, but usually watching their blows and stabs and cuts do nothing was enough to set them running.

He just wanted to be happy, and to make others happy. He wanted to play his music, make friends, and enjoy life. To bring joy where so many of his kind had only brought fear and destruction.

Then he met Geralt. 

When he first approached the hooded stranger it was out of curiosity, and maybe hoping that with some eyelash fluttering he could score a free bed and meal as he had been short on coin for a while. True, he didn’t  _ need  _ to eat or sleep, but he still liked to. 

But then he saw the yellow cat eyes, the two swords, and the padded armour. 

Jaskier used his iron will he rarely relied on to keep his panic down, knowing Witchers could smell such emotions. 

Despite the risk, Jaskier was short on material for his songs (and short of a few marbles his family would argue), and when the Witcher pointed out the inaccuracies, he decided he had a new goal. Stick to the Witcher. As long as he could.

He had been sure Geralt would figure it out, soon rather than later. But he didn’t. Jaskier had spent centuries perfecting his cover, so knowing it paid off to such a test was delightful. So he stayed and followed. 

At first, it was for inspiration, then for adventure, then for friendship, then for happiness...and now it was for love. 

It developed slowly, this ‘thing’ between them. Fond soft eyes on him when he laughed, sitting pressed together next to the fire, getting one bed despite having enough coin for two, excuses to touch, and sharing a bedroll ‘for warmth’ despite it being a warm night. It was soft shy smiles and gentle lingering touches. It was new and fragile and made his heart feel alive in a way that it hadn’t...maybe ever. He kept it close to his heart, shielded it from the elements, nurturing it and watching it bloom. Both welcomed this unspoken change between them, this new happiness and warmth. By now it was more like playful teasing, seeing which of them would snap first and take that final step, to seal their lips and finally admit their relationship. 

But as with all things in Jaskier’s life, happiness just wasn’t that simple. He still had to feed. He used to break away for a week or so every few months for that exact purpose, but had grown reluctant to leave his Witcher. When he suggested he needed to attend to something, Geralt shuffled awkwardly and asked if he could come with, clearly not wanting to be without him either. 

So he was torn between the way seeing Geralt smile at him made him feel like he could burst with happiness and love, and the way he could feel himself grow weaker, see himself getting more pale and gaunt. 

Geralt became more and more worried as the weeks passed. Worried looks turned to carefully asking if he was okay, to firmly demanding he eat and sleep more and ride on Roach instead of walking, for which Jaskier was thankful regardless. He refused Geralt’s offers to take him to a healer, because obviously the bard had something serious, until the offer became a threat. Jaskier knew he was running out of time. Even performing felt like too much of a chore, and he was losing energy fast. 

So he waited for an opportunity. They were in a new town and Geralt had just left on a contract for a night wraith and wouldn’t be back till morning. That night Jaskier mustered all his strength and charm to sing, then accepted the flirtations of the comely barmaid. He hadn’t realised how truly starved he was till the taste of her sweet blood knocked him out and he awoke to morning’s early light. She was still thankfully sleeping blissfully, so he quickly applied the balm and hummed a tune and watched a smile spread on her lips. 

He sneaked into the corridor, careful to quietly close the door behind him. He had just turned, fixing his sleep wrinkled shirt with his doublet in hand when he heard a crash and looked up. 

A stake to the heart would've hurt less than the look of wounded betrayal on the Witcher's beautiful face. At his feet lay two plates of food, breakfast he was bringing to what he had assumed would be a sleeping sick bard in their bed. 

“Geralt, this isn’t-” he started, his eyes desperately imploring as he reached for his Witcher, but the man only made a choked sound, taking a step back, then all but fleeing the inn. 

Jaskier had never hated himself and his nature this much in all his years. And he had hated himself a lot in the past.

They never spoke of it. But things had changed once again. Only now it was cold. Distant. Agony. He couldn't explain to Geralt that these interactions were never sexual, hasn’t been in years since he started falling for him, or why he had to do it. That would also mean Geralt finding out the truth about him. The whole truth.

Whether it be about lying for 20 years to the man who despised fake people, or being a vampire- either or both would have Geralt leaving him. Even kill him. He couldn’t bear the thought of parting from Geralt, just the thought left him feeling more empty, lost, and hurt than he could’ve imagined a vampire could ever feel. 

Still, Geralt didn’t turn him away. He didn’t tell him to leave, didn’t disappear in the night, or ride off with Roach at a speed he couldn’t keep up. He took the cold silence and clear muted pain on his beloved’s face as his punishment. He would do anything fo this man. Anything to make up for the hurt, even if Geralt never looks at him with a smile on his lips and affection in his eyes again.

So Jaskier decided to give up feeding. 

At 327 he has lived a full life. He had lived and laughed and loved and lost, more than he could ever have hoped for. He uses his remaining time to write as many songs as he could that would become his real immortality once he is gone, that would remind the world that his Witcher was kind, noble, and brave. That would make life easier for Witchers everywhere, even just a little. He would follow Geralt as long as he could until he grew too weak to walk, then go off on his own to put an end to himself before he hurts anyone.

And if he turns before that...well. At least Geralt would be there to put him down.


	2. Loved and Lost

Jaskier had once heard that being dead while slowly regenerating felt like a terrifying nothingness. A void. Like swimming in the dark, trying to find which way was up while drowning in the icy void. Lungs burning for air you cant reach, heart convulsions but not beating.

He understood the feeling now.

_ “If life could give me one blessing - if would be to take YOU off my hands!” _

A cold nothing that makes you want to drop to your knees scream in agony, but leaves you with a crushing emptiness. Even as tears streamed down his face, gaunt and pale as it is, even as it blurred his vision and choked him, his face held no emotion and he made no sound except for the gasps of breath.

Never able to draw enough air. Never enough. Yet his mind was clear as he took everything in. 

No one had invited him on the hunt, he had just come along. As always. Like a burden, an unwanted parasite. No one had woken him up, no one deemed him worth it. Or maybe they just didn’t care. 

He saw his Witcher near trembling and reached out to comfort him, only to become the target of his wrath. In the 22 years he had known Geralt, he had never seen that expression on his face - so full of hate and fury. 

He stood there for a few moments as the words sunk in, his own hands shaking and fidgeting, his chest heaving, feeling like he had been stabbed and crushed from a blow he couldn’t regenerate and heal from. He isn’t even sure what he mumbled before he turned to walk away before Geralt could see his tears. 

Geralt didn’t deserve to see his tears, didn’t deserve Jaskier to return his vitriol or make him feel guilty. Geralt had done nothing wrong. On the contrary, he had tolerated the bard, the bard who was too much and too loud and too useless, had carried the burden for years, and all he had done was finally tell the truth. Geralt was patient, and Jaskier had abused that, deluding himself into thinking it meant more.

It didn’t make it hurt any less, knowing that he deserved it. He had brought it on himself. He should never have followed the Witcher, should have realised the man didn’t want him from the start but was too polite to tell him. Too kind to be cruel. But even Witchers had their limits. 

Jaskier had thought when he saw the pain on Geralt’s face outside that barmaid’s room that he had never hated himself as much. He was wrong. That hate, even the hate on Geralt’s face mere seconds ago, paled in comparison to what he felt about himself now. He would tear himself limb from limb if he could. 

He wasn’t sure how he made it back to the camp. He stood by his pack and lute case for who knows how long, staring down at his meagre belongings. The only things he had to his name. He looked up at Roach, the tears in his eyes leaving her a brown blur. He never realised how much Geralt and Roach had become his home. His pack. How happy he had been. He reached out a trembling hand and soothed it down Roach’s soft, warm neck, earning him a curious whinny and bump to the chest from the sweet horse. On another day her bump and curiosity would’ve made him think she cared, now he knew she was just pushing him away too. 

He had had a good life. It was enough. 

He left his things. He had no more use for them. He took a piece of paper, torn from his notebook, and scribbled a short note through the blindness of his sobbing. When had he his shoulders started to shake with the heaviness of his pain and tears? It didn’t matter

He left it on his lute case, and took but one item before turning off. Let it all rot, be stolen, or sold. It didn’t matter. He left it all. Away from the camp, away from the path going up the mountain or down. 

Yes. He had had a good life. He had danced in courts and kissed queens. He had loved often, then loved one with his entire being with devotion and abandon. He had felt the elation of love and happiness he never thought possible, and the crippling weight of hurting someone you cherished above all. He had swallowed down bitter jealousy he knew he had no right to feel. Felt himself breakdown in his regret and shame. 

He had learned many lessons but one above all - he was a fool to think the love of a vampire was anything but destructive But it was time. Knowing the burden he was to the one person, the one home, that mattered to him - the pain he caused and how unwanted he was - it completely crushed him, broke him, consumed him in a choking deep pain, but there was also a peaceful acceptance. It had come sooner than he expected, but at least Geralt wouldn’t have to see it - wouldn’t have to be the one to put him down. 

At least there was one burden he could spare his beloved. 


	3. Your Wish

Once his rage had drained and his anger subsided, it was immediately replaced with self-loathing and guilt. Fuck, Jaskier had not deserved that.  _ FUCK _ !

He should go apologise to the bard, and hope he would be forgiven. Maybe buy him new lute strings, that always cheered him up. Or maybe go to the coast as he suggested, hopefully the sun and sea would help Jaskier finally get better. He hated seeing him so ill and weak.

Fuck, even after the bard made him feel like a fool for thinking he could be someone special to the man who could have literally whoever he wished, he still found himself drawn to him. Wanting Jaskier to be happy and healthy and at his side. He was pathetic.

An uneasy sense of dread settles low in his gut as he arrived at the deserted campsite. Only Roach remained, stomping her hooves anxiously. He frowned at her odd demeanour and the empty campsite. Surely Jaskier wouldn’t have left. Possibly writing a rude song about rude witchers. They’ve argued many times in the past but he never left. Even if he wanted to, he was too sick and weak.

He spotted Jaskier’s things under the tree Roach was tied to. He wouldn’t have left without it, so he had to be close by. Geralt didn’t realise how tense he was as he relaxed with this knowledge. 

It didn’t last long. 

Jaskier’s pack was neatly placed with his lute case laid flat in front of it. On it was a note. He could smell the salty bitterness of tears and hurt before he saw the wet stains on the page. A shaky hand that was always steady and graceful wrote but a few words. 

“I’m sorry. I love you. Always. Farewell.”

He felt his chest gripped in fear as he stared at it, reading it over and over as if the words would suddenly change. 

No. No Jaskier couldn’t… No. He wouldn’t have left. Something happened. Something was wrong. 

With a mind carefully blank of emotion and focused in a way it always was when he was tracking a beast he picked up the trail of bitter tears and pain - refusing to think on it - and followed it. He tried to calm himself with the distraction of following the scent and old habits such as softly cursing the bard for his foolishness and dramatics, that he would berate the man for scaring him like this before apologising. 

But this wasn’t foolishness or dramatics, was it? - his mind responded. Jaskier was different, had been different since that morning at the inn when he ran into him outside the barmaid’s room. Since then his dramatics had been through forced smiles, and his usual foolishness had dissipated, leaving instead an earnest but tired man who kept to himself with everyone except Geralt. His eyes no longer sparkled with mischief, but were softer. Deeper. Hopeless almost.

Geralt had turned to Yennefer in a combination of infatuation with her power and beauty, but also out of a weak place of needing a distraction, wanting to move on, and - he will admit only to himself- to get back at Jaskier. It was good, but when he left the next morning it wasn't to eye-rolling or jealous mumbling or even sassy warnings about the witch. Jaskier didn't smell of sharp jealousy. He smelled of hurt and dried tears, but his eyes held a resignation while his small smile was genuine. Like he accepted his fate and tried to push away the pain. Geralt had averted his gaze, suddenly feeling nauseous and not knowing why, busying himself instead with preparing breakfast knowing Jaskier would go without unless he demanded he eats.

Again he forced the thoughts from his mind. His feet had picked up as the scent got stronger. He was nearing a lake, he could smell the clean water and soggy moss. But before he reached the bank his eye caught a flash of red. Jaskier’s doublet. 

He ran to the collapsed man’s side, who lay on his front as if his feet had simply given out. His hand was cold to the touch, but maybe he had been this cold due to his illness? Geralt hadn’t touched his skin in months, he had no way of knowing. 

His own heart, usually slow and steady, hammered in his chest as panic threatened to grip his throat. He carefully turned Jaskier over. He was a dead weight, but there - barely there - was a small unsteady heartbeat. 

Jaskier was pale, deathly pale. His eyes, usually so bright and full of life and mischief was closed and sunken, as were his cheeks, devoid of the flush he got when performing or laughing or when Geralt smiled at him. 

How long had it been since he saw it? How long had it been since he truly looked at Jaskier in more than a passing glance?

“Jaskier?” he tried softly. No response. “Jaskier!” he tried louder. He shook him. “Jaskier! Open your eyes dammit!”

Silence. 

The panic was swelling up from his chest now, his breath speeding up. He looked around, trying to figure out what had caused him to collapse, but all he saw was something just out of Jaskier’s reach, like it had slipped when he fell. 

He recognised it. The silver dagger Jaskier had bought a few months back. He didn’t say anything as he had picked it up, examined it carefully, handed over the coin without trying to bargain, and tucked it into his pack, avoiding Geralt’s eyes as if he was doing something shameful. 

It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense!

“I don’t know what to do…” once he said the words he realised how true they were. There was no monster to slay or curse to break or wound to bandage. “I don’t know what to do! Jaskier, please, open your eyes! What’s wrong?! Talk to me!”

More silence. 

Panic. Frantic and dizzying. He tried to think…

Yennefer. Yen would know! 

He pocked the dagger and picked Jaskier up carefully, an arm under his legs and one wrapped tight around his chest. 

He only hoped he would make it in time and she hadn’t left the inn. 

He pushed Roach faster than he ever did in races, but she didn’t buck or complain, not even at the extra weight, probably sensing the urgency and the way Jaskier’s weak fluttering heartbeat became more unstable and his breathing irregular. 

If Geralt didn’t know better he would’ve thought the bard possessed by something that was sucking the life out of him but also wrestling for control. But his medallion was still.

He prayed to every god and deity that Yen would still be at the inn. 

The prayers of a Destiny-defying heathen paid off. With Jaskier’s weak thin body crushed tight to his chest he burst into the inn and followed the signature lilac and gooseberry scent up to Yennefer’s room, kicking at the door and frantically calling for her. 

She ripped the door open a few beats later. The storm of fury in her eyes and the anger coming off her in waves was almost enough to make him step back. Almost. 

One look at the body in his arms and it dissipated like mist in the morning sun. He recalled the worried scent she had when she looked at the bard, even though she tried to hide it with eye rolls and snark.

“Put him on the bed,” she said in a rushed tone. “What happened? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.”

The guilt must’ve slipped into his tone as Yen shot him a scowl. “What did you do, Geralt?”

“I…” he growled in frustration. Honesty. “After you left I snapped at him. I went to apologise and he was gone. Walked off on his own. I found him collapsed with this-” he took out the ornate silver dagger and held it up to her.

A frown of confusion then a spike of worry shot through her as she turned wide eyes back to the still form of the bard. Too still. Jaskier was always moving, bouncing or fluttering or fidgeting - never still. It was wrong.

She rushed to his side, worry now heavy in the air around her and he felt his own crushing panic return in force. She called forth her magic, swirls of purple and sparks of green mist, and let it flow into and through Jaskier’s body.

His body gave a jolt, his hand a twitch. His medallion vibrated.

Her eyebrows furrowed, “it can’t be,” she whispered to herself, her scent of worry now mingling with fear and shock. The magic in her hands now turning a reddish colour as she probed again.

His head snapped suddenly to the side then back, otherwise still as the grave. Her eyebrows shot up and she jumped back like she had been punched. 

Wide purple eyes turned to Geralt, “Regis. We need to get him to Regis! Right now!”

Not even waiting for a response she threw her hands up summoning a portal. Geralt took the order and quickly gathered Jaskier up, not even giving his customary comment of how much he disliked portals as they stepped through. 


	4. Home

It took a lot to spook a higher vampire, but Regis jumped in his chair spilling his tea at the portal suddenly exploding into his study. 

He was on his feet in a second, nails elongated, teeth bared and ready to defend himself, then he saw Geralt and Yennefer step through.

“Geralt, Yennefer, what-”

Geralt rushed forward and Regis saw the figure in his arms. 

_ Recognised  _ the body in his arms. 

He stood frozen in disbelief till Yennefer shook him out of it. “Regis, please, if it is what I think…”

He jumped into action. “On the table,” he ordered as he cleared his notes from the big lowered table in the center of his study where he usually did dissections and experiments. 

He hoped to the gods this didn’t end like that. 

Jaskier’s body twitched again as Geralt put him down, his chest arching for a split second. 

“Regis, what is it? What’s wrong with him?” Geralt begged. “Please, help him!” 

In all the decades they’ve known each other, Regis had never heard Geralt beg. 

“Step aside, I need a moment.” 

Yen pulled Geralt back to let Regis work. After a few agonizing quiet moments, Regis turned back to him, his hand on his forehead in resignation. 

Geralt hated the expression. What it implied. 

“Geralt, how in the world did you get mixed up with a Pankratz?”

That..was not what he was expecting. 

“What do you mean? I know he is a viscount, he’s mentioned it, but just to say he didn’t want to talk about his family and that was that.”

Regis shot a look to Yen, a silent question. She pursed her lips and shook her head. 

"Oh," Regis whispered to himself in a sad but strangely proud tone. "He hid it well then." He took a deep breath and turned to his guests. “Geralt, I’m terribly sorry to be the one to break this to you as it seems you didn’t know, but Julian here - is a higher vampire.”

Geralt felt like all the air had been ripped from his lungs. “No,” no, not his bard - not silly, clumsy, lovable Jaskier. “No, you’re wrong.” It sounded like denial to his own ears. He hated it. 

“I’m afraid I am not, my friend.” Regis sighed. “You see- the Pankratz are a powerful family. Very powerful. Very dangerous and heartless too. Your Julian here is the eldest son, but despite his title and lineage, he couldn’t adhere to the way his family hunted, tortured, and killed humans without remorse, and often for sport. When he refused to partake in the cruel festivities at a feast they saw it as an insult. He refused to apologise, rebuking them for their cruelty and thus made a powerful enemy of his family.”

Regis gave the body on the table a sad look as it twitched again, his head snapping to the side and hands spasming. Geralt could hear his erratic heartbeat. 

“Julian fled here, knowing I shared his convictions. I hid him and taught him everything I knew about humans and existing amongst them. Every higher vampire has a unique gift, you might recall Detlaff’s being herd affinity which lured Bruxa to help him fight. Julian’s was hypnosis. He could hypnotise a human, make them do whatever he wished, but also alter their thoughts and wipe memories. A powerful gift he denied his family to use.”

For a moment Geralt felt a wave of panic and anger - had Jaskier done that to him? Their memories together… did they even happen? But no, if he used it on him he never would’ve let Geralt remember the barmaid. They shared too many painful memories for him to have. 

“I see you questioning your relationship, I assure you there is no need,” Regis said knowing. “Together with a volunteer, a human assistant of mine, Julian and I devised a method that allowed him to feed. He would sing to them softly, lulling them into a calm hypnotic state, using only the slightest prick of his fangs he would be able to get just enough blood to keep him going. He hated that he had to do it, had to hurt, but I taught him how to make a balm that would erase any pain - which they wouldn’t even feel under that state. He would then softly sing to them, putting them to sleep, and replace the gap in memory with something gentle. He always left them better than how he found them - so to speak. And he swore to me to never use his abilities - vampiric or hypnotic - on anyone.”

Geralt was staring at Julian. It… It all… It did sound like something Jaskier would do - not wanting to hurt someone. Was that why… “But what is wrong with him? Higher vampires are immortal, they don’t get sick and regenerate within seconds. Why does it look like he’s dying!?”

He felt Yennefer put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t realised how his voice had raised. 

“How long had he been like this?” Regis asked. “Weak, pale?”

Geralt thought back. The barmaid. Before that he had been sick too, but after that he seemed healthy again. Since then it had been a steady decline. “A few months. Maybe five, six. I thought he was ill. Is he ill?”

“Geralt, higher Vampires have but one weakness - they need blood. Human blood, preferably. Without it they grow weak and sickly, they…” he shot a sad look over to Jaskier. “They starve.”

“So he’s dying? Fuck, why didn’t he say anything! I would’ve let him-”

“That’s probably why he didn’t say anything,” Yennefer cut off. “I may not know the bard as well as you do, but even I know the man wouldn’t hurt a fly. And that he would die before he hurt you." 

At Geralt's disbelieving and confused look Yen tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. "You have to know how the bard adored you, damn near worshipped you. A blind man could see the love he held for you. He fucking followed you around the continent for over two decades singing your praises while he could've been rich and happy in a court of his choice - but he chose to be you, roughing it on the Path. He was probably terrified to lose you.” Her voice was a little bitter but also strangely sympathetic.

He looked at her deep violet eyes, the deep emotion and conviction they always held. In another life he might’ve mourned his friend and taken her hand. But not in this one. He had never known how much he needed Jaskier, his bard, until the thought of leaving without him started crawling up - how empty and cold and meaningless his life would be again, just a monster and no longer the man Jaskier adored. Loved. 

It felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. But he had to focus - needed to. For Jaskier

Geralt wracked his memory. The way Jaskier would seem a bit more weak and clumsy before they parted ways for a bit. How a night in someone’s bed had him looking energised and healthy. How pale and weak he had been before the barmaid, and how he had gotten worse ever since… It fit. It made so much sense. He had thought the bard was just fickle, even with a weak constitution but with foolish determination. He also chose to ignore the nights Jaskier went to bed with another, didn’t think on it or pay much attention. 

Jaskier loved him. It was in the way he looked at him, touched him, trusted him, and stood by him with steadfast devotion. Stayed through his worst and his best, through silence and insults. Never wavering. He had thought the bard foolishly promiscuous and unfaithful, but it seemed he was wrong… How had he never seen this. 

A thump had their eyes turn back to Jaskier, his spasms getting worse. “What’s happening to him?” Geralt’s voice was unsteady. He hated it. “...there has to be something we can do.”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. There’s a good reason higher vampires go to such lengths to ensure they have access to human blood. A starved vampire - well, I guess the easiest way to explain it is that they become feral. Mad. Essentially rabid. Completely overcome by vampiric bloodlust. They lose their reasoning, their normal form, and become uncontrollably violent and bloodthirsty. They can only be killed by another vampire with silver. Higher vampires made an oath centuries ago to never fight one another, but this is the one exception.”

The silver dagger… Jaskier was going to...

“So Jaskier is…”

“Turning, yes,” Yennefer said, mostly to herself. “Oh Jaskier…” Her eyes were sad and even a little glassy as she stared at the bard. “I’m sorry, Geralt. Truly.”

A violent spasm had Jaskier nearly arching off the table, his lips pulling back revealing fangs elongating. 

“It’s time,” Regis sighed. “You need to leave. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Yennefer pulled on his arm but Geralt yanked it out. “No,” he shook his head. “NO!” Geralt started ripping off his armour, not caring of the sound of buckles snapping. Later Geralt would feel bad for how he pushed Regis out of the way, his friend was just trying to help.

“Jaskier never gave up on me, I refuse to give up on him.” He picked up Jaskier’s body, pulling him tight to his chest. He was cold. So cold. 

Geralt rushed over to the hearth settling on the furs in front of it with Jaskier in his lap. “Come on, bard, don’t leave me,” he cradled Jaskier’s head on his shoulder. “Come on, bite me, I need you back so I can yell at you, you selfless fool. Come on.”

Jaskier’s breathing was uneven but harsh now, his fingers spasming as his nails started to stretch. His body convulsing more often.

“Geralt, I need you to leave - now!” Regis ordered. “It’s too late, he will kill you! He won’t recognise you!”

“You don’t get it - he’s here because of me!” Geralt all but bellowed back. It was only when he said it that the full weight of that ruth settled. “He- he’s here because of me. I won’t abandon him.”

Geralt turned away and ignored Regis’ response, ignored everything that wasn’t the man in his arms. This loud, demanding, foolhardy, annoying, impatient, exaggerating… loyal, selfless, kind, sweet, noble-hearted fool of a man. This idiot, were he just a little selfish, who would’ve had the world at his feet, all the riches he could ever want, and human cattle at his beck and call. But he refused. 

He chose Geralt instead.

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt whispered, his own voice desperate and unsteady into Jaskier’s shoulder, the skin cool and clammy under his lips. “Just bite me, please, it’ll be okay - I promise. I’ll keep you from hurting me, but I need you to listen to me now. For once in your goddamn life listen to me.”

An inhuman growl came from Jaskier’s chest, his hands balling into fists, nails now claws, fangs fully extended as his whole body convulsed again. Geralt wrapped his arms tight around Jaskier, trapping his arms and holding him. 

“GERALT!” Regis yelled. “You need to leave! NOW!” he pulled a silver dagger from a belt on his hip and reached for Jaskier. “He has already started turning.”

Yennefer opened a portal, “it’s too late Geralt! We need to go.”

“Leave then!” Geralt snapped back, his body curling around the bard’s possessively as if he could protect Jaskier from the world, from his own nature. He ignored the nearly overpowering swirling scents of fear and panic and sadness in the room, his whole world focused on the man in his arms. 

“Jaskier, please… please! It’ll be okay, I promise,” he whispered, his voice wet and rough into Jaskier’s hair. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the signs of his sweet bard becoming a monster. “I’m not letting you go. You didn’t want to hurt me - well leaving me now will hurt more than anything you could possibly do!”

“GERALT!” Regis cried out. 

He felt the body in his arms violently shake, but kept his eyes closed.

A movement caught his attention and he opened his eyes in time to see Regis suddenly next to him, silver dagger in hand, eyes trained on Jaskier. 

“NO!”

It all happened so fast, impulse rather than thought. The same impulses that have kept him alive for over a century, honed to run even when he was barely conscious. He wrapped a strong protective arm around Jaskier and lunged at Regis, disarming him before the man could register, and grabbing the knife before blasting him with Aard. Four quick steps and he was at the portal. He pinpointed a memory, a location, and saw the nondescript stone floor and walls appear on the other side of the portal. Jaskier in his arms he lept into it, turning at the last moment to cast a mild Axii at Yen, causing her to lose control of the portal and close it, so she will have no idea where they had gone. 

It was strange how the smell of home, the scent of his old room in Kaer Morhen, did ease his frayed nerves somewhat as he stumbled to his feet. 

It all melted away pretty fast when Jaskier suddenly started convulsing in his arms. His eyelids fluttered, revealing the whites of his eyes already pitch black. A quick blast of Igni to the fireplace then he settled on the bed Jaskier still against his chest. 

It was at that point that he realised he was still clutching Jaskier’s silver dagger he had taken from Regis. He put it on the bed next to them. Not wanting to think of that possibility. That he might have to do it. 

But no! No, Jaskier isn’t a monster. He isn’t turned. Not yet. But the shaking was getting worse, growling, snarling sounds too. It really was like the last of Jaskier was trying to fight, to remain himself as long as he could. 

_ Do something! Anything! THINK Geralt! _

He grabbed the dagger again and quickly lifted it to the side of his neck, not even wincing as he made a sharp slice, before tossing it aside again. He moved his hand into Jaskier’s hair to grip, keeping the bard cradled against his chest. He turned his head to allow better access to Jaskier’s sharp glinting fangs. He ignored the sharp cheekbones, the claws, the inhumane noises, ignored the pounding of his own heart and the erratic racing of the bard’s, the scent of his own fear - a scent he barely recognised for how rare it was. He gripped Jaskier’s hair to tilt it back, exposing those deadly fangs, and pulled him close. 

He kept his eyes shut tight, Jaskier cradled in his arms, his lips now smeared with Geralt’s blood. He held the body in his arms crushingly tight against his chest, hoping against hope he wouldn’t have to lock Jaskier’s remains in the cells below the fortress for Regist to come finish off. He focused to find any indication that Jaskier was reacting to the blood, any sign beyond the shaking and changing.

He breathed deep, taking in the scent of summer, apple blossom, old parchment, and fresh wood that always clung to his bard. Scents that never failed to silence the voices in his head and calm his fraying senses when everything felt overwhelming.

“Jaskier… please…” his voice hitched. “It’ll be okay, I promise…”

Then he felt something. Something warm against the steady trickle of blood... A tongue, warm and soft. A lick at his neck. Over the cut. So subtle it could be accidental. 

The body in his arms went still. Not a spasm or a shake or a noise. Breath heavy against the sensitive skin just under his ear. “C’mon Jask, you can do it - focus. Don’t let it take you,” Geralt whispered against Jaskier’s racing pulse, cradling him closer, wrapping himself around the man. “I’m here. Come back to me.” His own voice heavy with emotions he couldn’t name.

Another drag of something warm and wet, then another. More purposeful. Soft lips moved and pressed over the cut, and he felt a little tugging sensation against his skin - barely-there suck. 

Suddenly there was no pounding hearts or panic. There was the soft crackle of the fire, the soothing scent of Jaskier, and quiet of them being alone together. They had been alone countless times, more often than not, but this was different. 

“That’s it,” Geralt whispered gently into Jaskier’s hair. As gentle as his rough voice could. “Come on, keep going. You’re doing well.” He loosened the grip on his hair and moved it back to cradle his head instead, holding it close, his other arm wrapping protectively around his bard. 

_ His  _ bard. His. The man he loved above all else. “It’ll be okay, I promise, just keep going,” he repeated softly. 

As if his words were finally reaching through the fog, Jaskier started reacting. Growls were replaced but soft desperate whines as blood slick lips latched firmly over the cut, drawing a mouthful and drinking greedily. Like the starved man he was. 

Geralt still had his eyes closed, a little overwhelmed but focusing on those lips and tongue on his neck, that he almost started when he felt trembling fingers touch the other side of his neck in a touch that was more tender than he could handle. 

“Jask?” He asked, hope threatening to fully overwhelm him. “Jaskier, you with me?” He turned his head towards the bard, causing the man lean back. 

Slowly he could see Jaskier’s daze lift and his eyes manage to open and focus on him. It was odd how with the bright blue of his eyes, his pale complexion, the bright red blood on his lips, so close in his arms here alone where no one could find or hunt them… Jaskier had never been more beautiful. 

His bard that was no monster. 

He watched as those still half-lidded eyes went from confusion to gentle awe, then to horror. Those eyes widened and dropped to the still bleeding cut on his neck, the smeared blood...then a tongue peeked out and swept over his bottom lip to taste. 

Jaskier made the most awful wounded noise he had ever heard the bard make. 

“Jask, what-” he had to keep hold of him as Jaskier suddenly tried to push him away, to get away, but luckily he didn’t have the strength yet. “Stop that!”

“No, no no no no no…” Jaskier mumbled to himself, his head shaking, the spike of the scent of panic and fear and the bitter gal of despair. 

Geralt collected him and bundled him to his chest again, restraining him. “Jask, its fine, you’re safe. There’s no need to be afraid.”

“No no no…” Jaskier kept mumbling, but now his voice was wet and choked, he gave up the struggle and just slumped. “This is wrong, this is wrong, I should be dead, this isn’t real, this isn’t real.”

Geralt gently moved his hand to brush through his hair, something that always calmed the bard when he was upset. “It’s real. I brought you here.”

“Geralt,” his name came out as a sob, and it  _ hurt,  _ “You don’t know what I-”

“Regis explained it. He was about to kill you. I brought you here. You’re safe. We’re safe. It’s okay.”

“No,” his voice choked and desperate. “No, it’s not. This is wrong. It’s bad and it’s wrong. You taste awful. You taste wrong.”

Geralt frowned at that. He recalled Regis having once told him that vampires have a more discerning pallet than many assume. The blood of a scared or panicked human tastes bitter. However, the blood of a happy, especially aroused, human is sweet and pleasant, and a lot more filling. It’s why Bruxa and other higher vampires often seduce their victims first. 

It was why Jaskier hypnotised them too, he realises. He could drink less blood and it would be good and keep him longer. 

“What do I taste like?” he asked softly, still stroking Jaskier’s hair.

Geralt smelled the bitter salty scent of tears, he held Jaskier a little closer. “Like pain. And fear. Anger. I hate it. I  **_hate_ ** it!” He sat up, his eyes etched in despair and helpless sadness when he looked at the wound. He reached out his hand to cover it, as if trying to stop the bleeding. “And I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be drinking it, you shouldn’t be bleeding, I shouldn’t  _ want _ it, and you shouldn’t…” His breath hitched and he whispered, “Geralt, you shouldn’t taste like this…”

Jaskier’s hand couldn’t make the cut disappear by sheer will. He drew it back and stared at the red smeared over his palm. For a moment Jaskier hovered, as if he wanted to lick his palm, but then quickly closed it in a fist and dropped his forehead against Geralt’s. Geralt could see the firelight glinting on the tear tracks over the bard’s still gaunt cheeks. 

“Jaskier,” he asked as softly and gently as he could. “Tell me honestly. There have been enough lies. Are you still hungry?”

Jaskier was silent save for his quiet sobs, then he nodded just a little. “So hungry. But please, you don’t know what you’re offering, please if you feel anything for me at all, do not be this cruel.”

“Giving you some of my blood is hardly a hardship for a Witcher, Jask. You should know this.”

“It’s not that simple!” Jaskier said, or snapped rather, pulling back sharply to let his ocean blue eyes focus on Geralt’s. “With your blood tasting like that, I would need a lot before I’m satisfied. I absolutely refuse to hypnotise you, don’t even ask, it is out of the question. Then there are the risks of conscious feeding from your mate that-” Jaskier cut himself off with a sharp inhale, his eyes darting away.

“Mate?” Geralt asked. He had the sobering memory of Detlaff and how he saw Syanna as his mate. How it broke him. How he lost himself in the pain. “Jaskier, do you see me as-”

“My mate? Yes. I can’t help it.” He responded in the smallest most insecure voice, a tone so opposite of the man he knew. “You must know us higher vampires are pack animals by nature, desiring a group to call home, to protect and be protected by, a mate…” Jaskier gives a hollow laugh. “We’re animals. Monsters. We are warned off such notions from a young age, told that taking a mate is foolish.” He lifted tearful eyes, a sheepish smile without humour. “And it is. But that is what you are to me. I’m sorry.”

Geralt watched his face crumble even as the bard tried to hold it together. “So please understand how it hurts me to see you, my mate, hurt and bleeding because of me, tasting like bitter fear and panic. I can’t bear it, please…” He looked at the cut again and flinched like he had been stabbed, face lined in pain.

Before Jaskier could hang his head again, letting his own despair swallow him, Geralt found his voice. “Let me change that. I’m doing this out of my own free will, Jaskier. I  _ want  _ to help you.”

Jaskier shook his head again, pushing back against Geralt’s chest and Geralt finally let him go so he sat next to him on the heavy furs of his bed. “You don’t know what you’re asking. For a higher vampire feeding from your willing mate is… it’s intimate. Dangerous, even, for a mortal. I refuse.”

“Why?” Geralt asks, a little more harshly and impatient than he wished.

“Because you are  _ not  _ my willing mate. I may have already bound my loyalties to you as my pack, and it is a burden of my own foolishness, but you do not see me the same.”

“Bu-”

I’m trying to give you your wish!” Jaskier snapped back, getting to his feet, and for a moment Geralt saw a very non-human flash in his eyes. 

They both stared at each other. Jaskier with fire and pain in his eyes, Geralt with shame.

“You remember.”

“Of course I remember. If your mate, the one you have carved onto your heart and dedicated yourself to, tells you that you are the cause of all their pain and hardship and that life's greatest blessing would be for you to be gone - it leaves a mark, Geralt. No vampire has ever left its pack voluntarily. Not unless they’ve been ripped away. And no one is left unchanged from that.”

The two men stared in silence, both lost in their own minds but hyper-aware of the other. Jaskier was fighting to keep the darkness from drawing him under, while also fighting to stay steady on his feet - he was telling the truth when he said he was still hungry. Geralt was staring at Jaskier like he was seeing him for the first time. In a sense he was. 

Geralt had never known love, loyalty, and devotion like that to be real - to be anything but fairytale whims. He looked at Jaskier and saw everything he never knew he dreamed of - in the secret inner sanctum of a Witcher’s heart that still held the dreams of a child from a childhood he never had. Who knows how many times Jaskier had saved him or protected him over the two decades they have been travelling together, the times he woke up to a monster corpse with no recollection beyond the beast overpowering him. The times he set out on a job without Jaskier only to find the monster he was hunting caught in a snare, or already wounded, or even freshly killed. 

There were other times Jaskier saved him too. With warm baths and gentle touches and soft words when he felt like he was falling apart and was more monster than man himself. Jaskier held him together when he didn’t even know he was shattered. And now he couldn’t - didn’t want to - imagine the Path without Jaskier. His self-centeredness had turned him selfish. How had he been so blind? The Witcher and his bard - the two go together. 

He rose slowly from the bed, his eyes trained on Jaskier as those ocean blue depths turned to him. He took in his frail, trembling body, the shadows in his eyes, and the hurt etched onto his face. 

Jaskier needed him. His mate needed him. Geralt wanted him to come home, to  _ be  _ his home. Geralt wanted to fix that hurt he had caused to the one person in his life who had least deserved it. No brother, no family, no friend had ever stood by and loved Geralt like Jaskier. And he would be damned if he didn’t do anything in his power to make this right.

Geralt reached out slowly like one would reach for an injured animal wanting to help it, but knowing it fears you will betray its trust. Jaskier did flinch, did eye him with the distrust that only comes from past betrayal. It was deserved but still stung before he found Jaskier collapsed on the path down the mountain he can’t remember the last time he touched Jaskier’s skin. Geralt swallowed down the dark cloying guilt that threatened him, and laid his hand gently on Jaskier’s cheek, drawing closer till they were a breath apart, Geralt’s heat radiating and causing Jaskier to lean in unconsciously. 

Geralt moved in closer, putting his forehead against Jaskier’s, his breath fanning the bard’s cool lips, eliciting a sharp shuddering inhale. Eyes closed, his nose tucked against Jaskier’s, Geralt soaked in Jaskier’s presence and scent, letting it soothe the last of his worry and fear - Jaskier was alive, was here with him - before leaning in, slowly, cautiously, to brush their lips together in a soft kiss. Asking permission.  _ I want this. I want you. Do you want me too? Please want me as I want you... _

Jaskier made a wounded sound in his throat and it felt like a piercing dagger but didn’t pull away, still a breath between them. “Please. Don’t be cruel, Geralt. I am weak, my love. And I am wanting. I have no resistance…”

“Then don’t resist.”

Geralt kissed him again, with intention and everything he felt but couldn’t describe. When their lips met again Jaskier truly had no resistance, his wanting overriding his weakness and at the touch of their lips, Jaskier bloomed for him. It was like their lips were falling in love with each other, the way they caressed and tasted and danced, teeth softly biting. Jaskier let out a desperate noise and Geralt realised he had wrapped his hands around the bard’s neck to cradle him close, afraid to break for more than a shuddering breath lest the magic that created this moment unravel and he loses Jaskier. Forever this time. 

But Jaskier didn’t leave, instead, it was like he was trying to meld himself with Geralt the way he wrapped his arms tight around his Witcher and held him close, pressing up against him from knees to chest. He was a starving man, but he yearned for and was starved of love and kindness and the touch of someone who knew who - or what - he was and still wanted him. Craving the unconditional love he had sung about so often but never felt.

As their tongues met, their lips waltzing together in a rhythm that had both dizzy with it, Geralt steered them back towards the bed, letting the bard lean against him. Letting the bard  _ trust _ him so completely and entirely, to lead and not let him fall. Jaskier trusted like he loved - completely and with his whole heart and soul, usually to his own demise. But Geralt swore to himself to never take it for granted again now that his eyes had been opened to what was at his side this whole time. Like losing a sword arm and realising how much you had taken it for granted, just as a tool to hold your sword up and not as a part of you. 

As much as Geralt wanted to lay the bard down on the soft furs and cover his body with his own, to hide and protect him from the world and the cold, he wasn’t sure Jaskier’s weak, starved body could hold him. So he laid back and pulled the bard up on him, Jaskier straddling Geralt’s lap eagerly, pressing in close again. Jaskier pressed his hands against Geralt’s broad, hot chest and slowly let them move up, adoringly, over his shoulders, up his neck, and weaving them into his long hair that had come loose of its tie. With desperate sound, he ground his body against Geralt’s causing a deep groan from his Witcher when their chests and groins came together and both realised the other was just as hard as they were. Both realising the other really wanted this too, still high that they were now allowed to touch and kiss and hold

Jaskier didn’t stop the hard but slow rolling of his hips, pressed close, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. It was like Jaskier’s whole body desperately wanted him. Geralt broke their kiss, foreheads together as they panted and caught their breath. He kept his eyes closed, so focused on the touch and feel and scent of Jaskier, the words felt natural. “Jaskier… bite me. I want you to.” Jaskier responded with a hitched breath, biting his lip, squeezing his eyes as his body tensed, like he was trying to hold back, trying to- “Please Jask.”

Lightning-fast there was a wet mouth and sharp pain that lasted but a moment before warmth and eager deep pulls had him feeling...strange. Right. Good. Calm. Jaskier’s teeth had latched on where his shoulder met his neck, his one hand curled tenderly around his neck, holding him like he was the most precious and valuable thing he had ever touched. 

At once it was as if Jaskier’s whole body had illuminated. As if he had come up for air after a long time underwater, struggling to breathe and stay lucid. There was life and light and desire so deep it nearly overwhelmed Geralt who just tilted his head back and closed his eyes, revelling in the strong scents around him and the warm body in his arms and mouth on his neck. There was something about Jaskier’s lips and tongue, its eagerness as it drank deeply from him, that left him dizzy but it had nothing to do with blood loss (he know he would have to lose a LOT of blood before he would feel it). 

“Yes, that’s it…” he groaned, low and husky. “I’ve got you.”

Jaskier pulled back, gasping as he pushed his forehead against Geralt’s again, eyes closed, lips stained red even as a breathless laugh escaped him. “Geralt... I… you have no idea… I never knew it could be this good…” Jaskier seemed drunk, almost high. 

“Do I taste better?”

Another disbelieving, breathless laugh - the sound of it stirred Geralt’s chest. “I’ve never tasted anything like it! Happy, aroused, calm, comfortable, adoring...love...all the opposite feelings that make blood bitter. That you tasted of earlier. I’ve never felt this alive. Its- You’re incredible.” He swallowed, eyes getting misty. “Thank you, Geralt. You cannot know what this means to me.”

Geralt couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at his lips if he wanted to. At the surprised expression on Jaskier’s face, he once again cursed himself for how blind he had been, and how he had not smiled at Jaskier enough. 

Geralt lifted a hand to Jaskier’s neck, feeling his pulse - now steady and strong - and slowly let his hand slide up to hold his cheek. His hair had gotten more shaggy since the incident with the barmaid, as if Jaskier stopped taking care of himself the way he used to. Like he did for Geralt. He ignored the pang to his chest and tucked some hair behind his ear. 

“Jask, I’m sorry. For what I said, for not giving you a chance to explain. You bared your heart to me, protected me in more ways than one, and I pushed you aside. I turned to Yen, wanting the distraction. I was angry and hurt, so I turned petty and spiteful and took it out on you. Because you were always there, because-” his breath hitched, the words choking but knowing he had to get them out. Jaskier deserved as much. “Because you had hurt me more than I could admit, and a horrible part of me wanted you to feel what I felt.”

As he spoke Jaskier had slowly started to pull in on himself. His shoulders hunched, head lowered, hands pulled back to his chest - as if wanting to make himself small but also to hide. “Geralt...I’m so sorry, I never meant-”

“Its okay, Jask,” Geralt ran his hand through those tousled locks. “Regis explained it.”

“I didn’t have sex with her, I swear it! I never have sexual relations with someone I drink from. It feels wrong. It is wrong! If I feed on someone that’s all it is, and when I have sex with someone that’s all it is. And I haven’t had sex in… well, longer than I should say.”

Geralt suspected he knew the reason why, but he wanted to hear it anyway. “Why not?”

Jaskier gave a smirk that was equal parts shy and smug, “Because they weren’t you. I had one poor bloke in my bed but I couldn’t get you off my mind. Kept my eyes closed and imagined it was you. Called out your name. Never went so limp so fast. That’s when I realised there was no substitute for you.”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the bite on Geralt’s shoulder and the Witcher didn’t miss the scent of desire spiking. He wrapped his arms around his bard’s waist and pulled him flush against him again. “Then I would just have to keep you. You won’t need to drink from anyone else. You’d just be...mine.”

Jaskier’s eyes flashed, the whites momentarily clouded in black and hands gripping a little tight to be human. “Mine…” he muttered under his breath, still tinged with the distinct hint of blood and iron. “My mate. No sharing.” It wasn’t a question, it was more of a declaration, Jaskier’s vampiric nature rising closer to the surface but not for a single moment did Geralt feel unsafe. Rather, it was like Jaskier was finally feeling safe enough to let himself go

“Yours.” Geralt whispered back, tilting his head just slightly to the side to expose the bite, still bleeding a little.

Jaskier’s eyes went dark with lust, tongue peeking out to lick the stray drop slowly running down, and want for a moment before he seemed to snap out of it, shaking his head and pulling away. “No, its...its better that we stop here.”

“Why?” Geralt tried to not sound hurt. 

“Because I’m not going to be able to help myself...to hold back.”

“What if I don’t want you to.”

Jaskier gave a breathy chuckle and shook his head like one would do to a child who had asked a silly question. For the first time, Geralt wondered how old Jaskier was. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking. As I’ve mentioned, for a higher vampire feeding from your mate can be...intoxicating. Feeding and giving in to those desires is a deeply intimate thing for us, it binds you to your mate. Permanently. Don’t tempt me, darling...you know I’m weak when it comes to you. And by now you must know how badly I want you...need you...love you.”

“Then love me enough to respect my choice. I want you, Jask. All of you. No more hiding, holding back, or hurting. Make me yours.”

Jaskier made a strangled, very inhuman noise, and within one breath and the next Jaskier sunk his fangs back into the bite, deeper than before. A deep pull and the bard moaned low and hungry, his hands groping for the hem of Geralt’s shirt, breaking only to quickly pull it over his head and toss it aside, but this time meeting Geralt’s lips in a desperate kiss. 

Tasting his own blood on his tongue was odd, but tasting his blood on Jaskier’s lips, knowing that he would be the one to keep Jaskier fed and healthy and happy, that Jaskier had chosen him and him alone, well… there was no feeling that could rival the rush of happiness and devotion and love. 

Jaskier smiled, warm and helpless. “I never could say no to you, love.”

Jaskier started to thrust his hips, their clothed cocks now hard again where he ground them together. It wasn’t enough. “Off,” he mumbled with a growl, and Jaskier scrambled to obey. He lifted himself up to pull his own pants down then quickly divested Geralt of his as well, the action completely devoid of the usual sensual grace the bard had. 

Jaskier paused then, “slick?”

“Nightstand, top shelf.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow even as he rushed to grab it. “Winters get a bit lonely?”

Geralt just rolled his eyes but he knew his look was fond as Jaskier laughed, bright and happy, even as he rushed to straddle his hips again, their chests pressed together where Geralt sat propped up. Geralt tasted the smile on Jaskier’s lips as he had ached to do so often, eyes closed to savour it, and letting Jaskier take the lead, to take what he needs. 

He feels Jaskier move, their kiss growing deeper and more heated, then a slick hand takes hold of him, working up and down his length.

“Oh, goddess…” Jaskier whispered low and rough. “How I’ve wanted to see you like this...to feel you. It’s even better than in my fantasies.”

“You fantasized about this?” Geralt smirked.

“For years.” Geralt moans as Jaskier runs a tight, slick fist up and down his hard cock. “But they didn’t do this justice.”

Geralt is still coming back to his senses when Jaskier shifts again to lif himself above Geralt, his flushed crown kissing his slick, but tight hole. 

“Wait,” Geralt interrupted, grabbing hold of Jaskier’s hips to keep him from sinking down. “You’re not ready.” Geralt knew he was...ample. As was all Witchers. And he had seen even an experienced whore hurt herself for being impatient.

Jaskier just gave him a shaky laugh. “Dear heart, I can heal faster than you can hurt me. There’s enough slick in me, I just need to go slow, I’ll adjust quickly.” Geralt hesitated so Jaskier kissed him softly. “Trust me, my love.”

Geralt gave a small nod and Jaskier gave him another painfully tender kiss before sitting up, eyes closed in focus he lifted himself up over Geralt’s cock. Slowly he sank down, Geralt’s heavy, blunt head breaching him barely on the good side of painfully tight. But then he can feel Jaskier’s body accepting him, sucking him in, fitting around him snug and perfect in his sweet, slick, velvety hot entrance. 

Jaskier had mentioned to him once years ago that he much preferred women over men, and if he did take a man to bed he much, much preferred to take than be taken. To be taken made felt too intimate, a vulnerability that made him deeply uncomfortable. Learning of Jaskier’s nature and knowing how suspicious and distrustful vampires typically were to humans, he understands it now. But that makes it all the more dizzying that Jaskier wants him inside him this badly. 

Jaskier leans back, rests his hands on Geralt’s knees, his head thrown back drawing deep breaths, as he rolls his body from his shoulders, his chest, his belly, to his hips, letting Geralt’s thick cock stretch him and caress his inner walls and nerves in all the ways he wanted. And he wanted, judging by the moans, keens, and way his body all but danced on him. 

“Fuck, oh fuck- Geralt… you feel-  _ fuck!” _

“Good?” Geralt asked, only realising then how breathy his own voice was, his hips moving smoothly to meet Jaskier’s rhythm.

“So good! So- so perfect. So good for me. Oh,  _ Geralt!  _ Hnnngg! _ ”  _ Jaskier’s keen started taking on a growling quality. “Fill me - so good -”

“That’s it,” Geralt encouraged as Jaskier sat up fully and started going faster, impaling himself on Geralt over and over in sync with Geralt’s own thrust up. “Let go. I got you.”

Jaskier went faster still, his lips pulling into a snarl showing his fangs as the air was punched out of him with each powerful thrust that buried Geralt deep in him over and over. He grabbed Geralt by the neck, pulling him forward. Geralt propping himself up with his arms behind him, letting Jaskier have his way with him, his tongue delving into his mouth to taste him as Geralt delved into the most intimate part of him which fit him so tight and sweet like it was made for him. The sounds coming off his bard, moans and groans and keens and growls and high-pitched cries of his name and  _ more! Harder! Yes!  _ filled the air but started to sound deeper. 

Jaskier slammed down then held himself there. He breathed heavily as he opened his dazed eyes to lock with Geralt. “Last chance to back out… I can’t hold back if we keep going, I’m not strong enough.”

In response Geralt leaned forward and bit at his bottom lip, thrusting up in the limited space he had, but restricted by Jaskier’s inhuman strength. “I said I wanted all of you. I meant it.”

It was like a thread snapped. The whites of Jaskier’s eyes bled into black and he whined in hunger and delight, keeping their chests flush together as he resumed the passionate, desperate pace, still so tight and perfect around Geralt. 

The bite on Jaskier’s lip closed almost immediately but Jaskier wiped his thumb over it, using the blood on his finger to trace a strange sign over Geralt’s chest, mumbling in a langue Geralt has never heard. Next, he swiped his fingers over the bite on Geralt’s neck, using that blood to copy the sign on his belly. 

When he was done Geralt felt something, an odd tug or pull inside him, but feeling so  _ right  _ he moaned. Jaskier held onto Geralt’s shoulders and fully threw himself into riding him. Geralt had never been ridden like this, Jaskier’s face the vision of bliss as moved his legs forward a bit and drove Geralt deeper into him. He cried out and Geralt felt the pricks of sharp, long nails on his shoulders. 

“Cl- close- I’m so close,” he warned. “Oh  _ Geralt _ , love, yes!”

Geralt acted on his own instinct, arms shooting out to grab hold of Jaskier’s hips and flipping them over. With Jaskier’s long, beautiful legs hitched higher he thrust in even deeper, both of them crying out in ecstasy. “Yes! Yes! Oh, perfect! Give it to me, give me everything!”

Jaskier’s soft, hot walls started to flutter around him, and Geralt’s own pounding pace stuttered. They were both on the brink. 

“Geralt! Bite me!” Before Geralt could question it he found his teeth sinking into Jaskier’s shoulder, barely registering a mirroring bite on his own. 

It was the most powerful, dizzying pleasure he had ever felt. His vision went white and the breath left his lungs as every nerve in his body sang in harmony with Jaskier the moment he released deep, so deep into his lover and his teeth marked him, just as the bard had done to him. It was like a circle that perfectly aligned at the perfect moment and the world fell away. 

All that existed was the two of them, as one.

  
  


Geralt woke slowly, feeling more relaxed and at peace than he had any memory of. The crackle of a fire and the creak of a chair had him opening his eyes. Jaskier sat lounged in an armchair in only his trousers, staring into the fire with a worried expression. His hand handing off the side showed his fingernails still sharp, like Regis’ was around him, and his body seemed somehow taller and stronger than the soft bard he had gotten used to, his nose and jaws just slightly more angular and small fangs showed when he bit his lip as he did when he was nervous. This is Jaskier in his natural body, Geralt realises, and marvels for a moment at how utterly beautiful he is. 

“Everything okay?” His voice rumbled across the room. 

Jaskier’s head whipped up and he was on his feet and at his side in a heartbeat. “Geralt! How are you feeling? Are you okay? Any pain or discomfort? Please, be honest,” he rattled off with panic in his tone. 

Geralt sat up, giving himself a mental once-over. “Little sore, little dizzy, but happy and-” then he noted something strange. He felt… like there was something in his chest, in his heart, that soothed and warmed him. He felt safe and  _ right _ somehow, like two odd shapes had perfectly slotted together. Jaskier was looking nervous again, so he smiled at his silly bard. “Perfect.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows lifted. “You can feel the bond? You seemed lost there for a moment. Like we-”

“-go together, share a home. Yes.”

Jaskier beamed at him, a smile more bright than he had ever seen before on his handsome face. 

“Home,” Jaskier whispered as he cradled his face and kissed his forehead before bringing him together. 

“Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...did you like it? Please let me know!
> 
> Also come chat with me on [Twitter (@IsaAfterDark)](https://twitter.com/IsaAfterDark) or on [Tumblr](https://clown-of-rivia.tumblr.com/)!


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